Phalanges and Oculus
by Prime-Minister-Holmes
Summary: Sherlock and John. Phalanges and Oculus. Everyone takes pleasure in something. Everyone has a weak spot. But not everyone is willing to admit it. Sherlock and John were made specifically to balance out the other. If only they could see past their pride to realize it.
1. And Forever Shall I Be Yours

**Author's Note: I do not own Sherlock.**

….

John had developed a very, very odd obsession with Sherlock's fingers. He was completely and utterly besotted with the little buggers. They were soft and white, long and graceful, and looked wondrous when pressed thoughtfully against their owners soft pink lips. What John wouldn't give to have those spidery little digits skimming down the side of his face. Every time Sherlock ate a scone he would watch discreetly from behind the gray and black of his newspaper as his flat mate's elegant extremities would sink into the porous flakes, complementing perfectly with the golden brown. Unfortunately, Sherlock had taken notice to the doctor's strange fixation. Whilst he did have enough decency not mention it, the detective couldn't help but play with his discovery. Every now and then, Sherlock would pretend to swat a bug off John's cheek, or straighten his shirt collar, and, on one occasion, Sherlock licked the pad of his thumb and wiped a smudge of strawberry jam from the corner of John's mouth. The blush that had heated John's cheeks was definitely the most vibrant thing Sherlock had seen in his life. The smallest touch, the most insignificant contact, would set the sandy haired blogger's heart at an unnatural rate, pupils dilating, and skin a sweet rosy color. How could Sherlock resist such a useful weakness? He couldn't.

…..

As it happens, Sherlock had quite a fetish for his companion's eyes. The small, watery blue orbs never failed to spur his pulse. Luckily, John did not possess outstanding observational skills, so he never noticed the guilty, sneaking looks, Sherlock would indulge himself in. Though, each passing glance would paint his face the color of blood, and halt his train of thought with enough force to jar his form. However blind John could be, these physical reactions were not subtle changes. And the concern in those deep, knowing irises did nothing to ease the genius's melting heart. Altogether, Sherlock knew he was madly in love with his flat mate. Just as John knew he was head over heels for his. But the both of them wrote their passionate stirrings off as one would a business report, with frustration and a faulty pen.

…..

One painfully bright morning Mrs. Hudson rapped lightly on the door, still slightly ajar from its occupants oblivious nature.

"Oo-hoo, Sherlock dear? Are up you up yet?" all the poor landlady got in response was an agitated grunt from his bedroom, "Alright, just wanted to tell you, John went out about an hour ago for the groceries."

"WHAT!?" Sherlock bellowed, storming down the hallway.

"He does the shopping every Saturday, I don't see why your so upset," she put her hands on her hip

"I made tea…" he whimpered sadly, crumpling dejectedly onto the couch in a heap of silken robes and sinfully bad breath.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson paused thoughtfully, "I don't see why you can't give it to him when he gets back."

"Because, John doesn't drink tea between the hours of nine and one," Sherlock explained, his face nestled into the crook of his elbow, "It's already eight-thirty."

"Then you can make it after one then," she reasoned, already resigned to the fact that this would do nothing to placate her moody tenant.

"I honestly don't think I can contemplate the extensive effort it would take to make tea twice in one day," the detective whined, removing his arm and giving Mrs. Hudson a withering look. The old woman shrugged and left the room, pausing to call back over her shoulder:

"It takes extensive effort to win someone over," before descending down the stairs to take her herbal soothers. Sherlock swallowed a scoff, and thought over her words until John returned home.

…..

"Sherlock? Are you okay? You haven't been this quiet since I broke your petri dishes," John remarked, removing his wrinkled jacket and settling into his chair. Sherlock was lying face down on the couch, the only signs of life being the faint whispers of breath against the armrest.

"Fine John, perfectly absolutely completely and utterly _fine,_" he spat venomously. John quirked an eyebrow and opened up his laptop. _What has gotten into that man? _He though incredulously, scrolling aimlessly through the reviews his blog had received.

_**Are you and sherlock dating? ;)**_

John rolled his eyes at the most recent one, wondering if anyone would ever see through their own romantic fantasies and see- well, see what exactly? John had noticed how his heart would flutter and his stomach would lurch whenever Sherlock touched him. Certainly it was just a simple, er, something that is not a crush, right? Besides, the raven haired man was a self-diagnosed sociopath. The chances of him ever reciprocating an infatuation that is certainly not there were slim at best. What did it matter anyway, even if the tween girl inside of him harbored feelings for the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes? It was just a passing fancy. Definitely.

…..

"JOHN RUN!" Sherlock yelled, already sprinting over the damp cobblestone ground, occasionally looking over his shoulder, checking to see if his quarry was still pursuing them. John eventually caught up to him, arms pumping wildly at his sides, eyebrows drawn in concentration. Sherlock lead the fugitive down a darkened alley where Lestrade and his men waited patiently for the detective to deliver their prisoner.

"Are, huh, they, huh, ready, huh, for, huh, us?" John asked between erratic gasps of air. Sherlock only nodded in response, conserving his breath for the chase.

"AHA!" Lestrade exclaimed, leaping out from the bins and tackling the perpetrator. The rest of the team emerged from their respective hiding spots, guns trained expertly at the ground, knees bent and ready for action. Sherlock and John were bent over, hands resting on their thighs, and heaving greedy breaths to sate their empty lungs. They gave each other a significant look, and promptly dissolved into raucous laughter. The adrenaline still coursing through hot blooded veins. Lestrade shot them an amused look, and signaled for his underlings to continue the arrest.

"We couldn't have done it without you Sherlock," the DI clapped his shoulder once the pairs giggles had abated.

"Well of course not," Sherlock stated haughtily, "If you could've, I'd be out of the job." The three of them smiled, still high on the thrill of the chase.

"Text us when you've got a new one," John reminded, guiding Sherlock away from the scene, and into a cab. He looked up at the moon, hanging heavily from its celestial perch amongst the stars, and thought absently about how much it reminded him of Sherlock. Large and overbearing, looking down on everyone else, yet soft, and pretty, inaccessible as ever, and just there, always there and strangely dependable. Yes, John Watson most certainly had a crush on Sherlock Holmes.

**Please tell me what you think! Reviews are the most sacred thing on this planet besides BBC!**


	2. Such Sweet Sorrow

…..

There was blood. Lots of blood. Blood, dripping, oozing, sliding down the sides of a too-pale face. Pooling in the wrinkles around the mouth, drying in the crinkles around empty, _blue _eyes. Rich maroon splotches staining an otherwise pristine woolen jumper. A crimson rosette blossoming across the shoulder of a man Sherlock knew all too well. Thin lips choking on the impossible words, yearning to vocalize the desires of a dying heart. The empty _blue _eyes rolling back into the head, revealing blank, unfeeling spheres, like billiards cues. Trembling hands, reaching out, ragged fingers closing on air, and a thick, howling sob. The retched creature fell on scabby knees, whimpering pathetically, and collapsed, its life drained, its will stolen.

"Sherlock! Good God, Sherlock wake up!" John shook his friend awake, a concerned frown darkening his countenance. The raven haired detective's gray green eyes shot open, clammy hands shot from the duvet and clasped the forearms of _his _John Watson, "Shh, it's okay, just a dream." The doctor soothed, easing him back onto the bed and retracting his arms.

"Sorry, had a bit of a fright there," Sherlock stammered, sinking further under the covers of his bed to mask the shivering.

"'Bit of a fright', Sherlock you were screaming bloody murder!" John exclaimed, examining his shaken flat mate, "I'll make some tea, yeah?"

"Yes, tea will do," he pouted, the usual insolence returning. John just shook, his head, a fond smile flitting across wind-chapped lips. Once he had exited the room, Sherlock burrowed beneath the duvet and curled up in a ball at the foot of the bed. _What was with the dream? _ He thought sullenly, toes curling in on themselves in spite of the stifling warmth. The bedding was thick, but Sherlock could still see the dark shadow of John moving about, doing everything that made him John. There was something, endearing about the sweet consistency of the blogger's existence. He would always be there, bearing tea and a gun, smelling of laundry detergent and blood. Sherlock wanted John to be truly his, for John to hug him after every case was solved, to kiss him after every brilliant deduction, to laugh at every half-hearted attempt at humor. Sherlock Holmes most definitely had a crush on John Watson.


End file.
